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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24238675">I Give You That Which is Mine to Give</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewSpy/pseuds/NewSpy'>NewSpy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Domesticity, Fluff, M/M, Scottish Cottage Fic, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Martin Blackwood, bed sharing, post mag 159</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:48:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,062</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24238675</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewSpy/pseuds/NewSpy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon clings to Martin after they leave the Lonely.</p><p> </p><p>Jon and Martin are both touch starved, and they both try to pick up the pieces of the past few years.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>446</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Give You That Which is Mine to Give</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please excuse any typos, this work is unbeta'd.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon clings to Martin after they leave the Lonely.</p><p>He didn’t notice it too much at first. He’d been occupied with many things in a small amount of time: taking enough money from Peter’s bank accounts to tide him and Jon over, gathering what he and Jon needed from their respective flats, getting in touch with Basira under the nose of the London Met.</p><p>(<i>For</i> help or <i>to</i> help, Martin wasn’t quite sure at the time.)</p><p>It’s Basira who tells them about Daisy’s cottage in the arse end of Scotland. She’s the one who gives them keys, directions, the promise of some relief from the police. She even tells Jon she’ll send him statements when the police presence at the Institute thins out.</p><p>“Thank you, Basira. For -- for everything. Take care of yourself, okay?” Jon says quietly, eyes downcast as they all shrug into their coats. The air inside the pub Basira had them meet at is warm and crowded (enough so that Martin froze in the door and only found his ability to move when Jon squeezed his hand), but November brought a chill to the night air. “And if you hear from Daisy,” Jon starts before his face crumples. There’s fear in that look. Fear and grief and a dozen other emotions Martin’s forgotten how to recognize.</p><p>Martin is still remembering how to be a person. He is still relearning how to let himself care, how to feel beyond that numb, comfortable (safe) distance. He doesn’t know what, exactly, happened in the Choke between Jon and Daisy. He doesn’t know what changed to make them this close, but Jon’s expression lodges a shard of glass in the vicinity of Matin’s heart. All Martin wants to do is smooth away the lines of grief from Jon’s face, promise him and Basira that things will be okay. He thinks he might’ve tried, once. Now, all he can do is wrap his hand around Jon’s and squeeze.</p><p>“I’ll let you know,” Basira assures, voice quiet in the pub’s din. “You take care of yourself Jon.” She turns and looks up to Martin, expression firm and kind. Had things been different, Martin thinks they could’ve been friends. Maybe even good ones. “Keep an eye on him.”</p><p>Martin might still have the Lonely’s mark on him, but he doesn’t need a reminder to do that. “Of course. Take care of yourself, and… I’m sorry Basira.” The apology feels awkward and stilited, but her expression softens just a bit.</p><p>“Go,” she orders, and they leave her alone at the table, staring into her pint glass. Martin tries not to think about how this feels like a last goodbye.</p><p>/=\=/=\=/=\=/=\=/=\</p><p>It’s then that Martin really notices Jon’s clinginess.</p><p>Thinking back on it, Jon had kept in almost constant contact with Martin. Jon’s hand holding on tight as Jon led him out of the Lonely, Jon’s thin shoulder brushing against his in various cabs, Jon’s elbow or knee knocking against his in the pub. But here, on the train to Scotland, Jon’s practically glued to his side.</p><p>Not that Martin can complain. It’s not terribly crowded, but there are enough people to exhaust Martin. Jon, though, is a warm, grounding presence against his side, hands fisted in his shirt and face pressed into the crook of Martin’s throat. They’re about an hour in on their train ride and Jon still hasn’t moved other than the rise and fall of his chest, and Martin eventually scrapes together enough energy to ask, “Jon? Are you okay?”</p><p>Jon grunts and shuffles even closer, as if he’s trying to crawl under Martin’s skin. “I’m fine, Martin. I’m just a little… overwhelmed, I suppose.”</p><p>“Over…?” Martin starts, trying to puzzle out what Jon means.</p><p>“Overwhelmed,” Jon repeats, breath warm and shaky against Martin’s skin. “I-- I don’t do well in crowds. I never have, really. It’s too loud and there are too many people and--”</p><p>“Jon,” Martin interrupts as gently as he’s able to. Martin can feel Jon’s anxiety in the tight line of his shoulders, the stiffness of his body, the subtle clenching and unclenching of his jaw. “It’s okay. I think I understand. I don’t really like crowds much myself anymore. Just tell me what I can do to help.”</p><p>Jon finally peels himself away from Martin’s side just enough to peer into his face. It might be the shift of light or an optical illusion, but for a second Jon’s honey-gold eyes gleam a brighter yellow for just a moment as he studies Martin’s face. “Oh,” he mutters, almost to himself. “This is good. It’s easier, when I can focus on something else.” Something in his expression must shift because Jon adds, somewhat defensively, “What?”</p><p>Martin cups a hand along the strong line of Jon’s jaw and traces a thumb across the curve of a cheek. Jon leans into the touch, and Martin is filled with the simple contentment of physical affection. “Your eyes are gorgeous.”</p><p>He can feel the way heat floods Jon’s cheek as Jon drops his gaze. “They changed color when I… when I woke up.” He huffs out a laugh, short and sharp. “I never thought I’d miss plain old brown eyes.”</p><p>“I thought they were gorgeous before,” Martin tells him. He did. Jon’s eyes were always striking, bright as they are with intelligence and curiosity and determination. “And I think they’re gorgeous now.”</p><p>Jon draws in a shuddering breath and reaches to grip Martin’s wrist in a loose grasp. It’s his right hand, and the burned skin has a strange texture now. He doesn’t know much about burns and wonders if Martin feels any different to Jon. Jon glances up at him cautiously, almost shyly, through his eyelashes and squeezes his wrist gently. “Thank you, Martin.”</p><p>For the first time in a long time, Martin thinks he can interpret the subtext. <i>Thank you for being here. Thank you for staying. Thank you for not being frightened of me.</i></p><p>“Of course, Jon.” Martin pulls Jon forward gently, pressing a gentle kiss to Jon’s forehead. “Now come here.” It takes a few moments of wriggling and rearranging limbs, but eventually Jon is stretched out across a few seats, head pillowed in Martin’s lap as he smooths back those curls. They’re not as soft as Martin thought they would be, but it makes things seem more real in an odd way. This is not a perfect delusion Peter created for him, not a way for him to twist the knife deeper. This is real. Jon is real, Martin is real, and they’re both alive. They’re together and alive and they’ll figure something out.</p><p>As Jon dozes off, Martin leans back in his seat and breathes. In through the nose, out through the mouth, deep as he can manage. And as he breathes, he examines this strange… feeling taking root in his chest. He’s surprised when he realizes it’s hope. For the first time since he kept vigil at a comatose Jon’s bedside, still in the stiff black suit he wore to his mum’s funeral, he feels hope.</p><p>/=\=/=\=/=\=/=\=/=\</p><p>Daisy’s cottage is a surprisingly homey place, all things considered.</p><p>It’s overgrown with weeds and some flowering vine creeping up the stone walls, and Martin’s hit with the smell of dust when he opens the door for them to peer in. That’s not unusual though, from Martin can tell. It seems just like any other holiday home left empty for a while, waiting for life to fill it up once more. At the very least, there are no bodies or weapons in plain sight. Nothing to indicate the owner’s vicious nature.</p><p>Maybe it’s his slowly reemerging empathy, maybe it’s the knowledge that Jon’s grown close to Daisy, but Martin feels rather bad for thinking that. Whatever her numerous faults and misdeeds, Daisy had sacrificed herself and the humanity she’d fought so hard for to save Jon, Basira, and so many other Institute employees. Jon had told him about it after his brief nap but only after he resumed clinging like a limpet. Jon had even cried, tears soaking into Martin’s shirt collar as all the emotions of the past few days caught up with him.</p><p>Martin didn’t cry, not properly, but a few tears stung his eyes as he remembered the comfort he craved when he was a small, hurting child. He remembered what he wished his mum would do, and he leaned on those memories as he held Jon close. “It’s okay,” he murmured into Jon’s temple. “I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re okay. Things will be okay, you’ll see.”</p><p>Martin hadn’t known Daisy -- he’d only known the Hunter in her, the detective who cared more about the chase and the kill than justice. He hadn’t known the Daisy Jon told him about, free of the Hunt and clinging to her humanity by the skin of her teeth, the one who introduced Jon to the Archers and was a friend to him when no one else could or would be. Martin can’t find it in himself to mourn that Daisy yet, but he can be there for Jon who is mourning as he stares around the open living room and kitchen.</p><p>He presses himself along Jon’s back and hugs him into Martin’s chest. Jon leans into him and grips his forearms. Not pulling himself free or pushing Martin away. They’re just there, holding on. “It’s not too bad,” Jon finally says, voice a little rough.</p><p>“Cozy,” Martin agrees. They stand like that for a while more, just breathing each other in. Absorbing the fact that, for the moment, they are safe. They are safe and together, and they can work through everything else later. For now though, they both need rest. It’s late, and being around so many people has left Martin utterly drained; he thinks Jon feels much the same. “You should go lie down Jon. You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet.”</p><p>The loose grip Jon has on Martin’s arm tightens, and he tugs Martin impatiently in the direction of a bedroom. The bedroom, Martin realizes. The cottage is too small for more than one. The realization brings Martin to a halt despite the way Jon continues his efforts to pull Martin along. For all the powers Beholding has granted Jon though, super strength is not one of them. He and Jon might be the same height, but Martin is broad and solid even when he’s not being compared to Jon.</p><p>“Jon, hold on a second. There’s only one bed, you can have it. I’ll sleep on the couch, it’s fine--”</p><p>“Martin,” Jon interrupts with something of that old impatience and exasperation. It’s tempered now by the softness in Jon’s eyes, the thin line of his mouth. “Come to bed with me.” Martin hesitates, and Jon’s grip tightens just a bit as he adds, “Please.”</p><p>Martin goes to bed with Jon. The bedroom is as dusty as the rest of the house, and the sheets smell musty with disuse; they go anyways, kicking off their shoes and shucking off their pants. Jon hesitates, fidgeting with the hem of his long sleeve before ultimately leaving it on. Martin wonders at that. He knows a thing or two about being body conscious, and he wonders if Jon’s always been like that or only after the scars.</p><p>The bed’s tucked into the corner, and Jon slides into it first. He lays there, curled on his side with his back to the wall as he watches Martin toss his shirt off before following after. Martin’s always gotten hot easily, and he’s too exhausted to be self conscious about his pudge or his scars.</p><p>Jon presses in closer immediately, tangling their legs together. He hesitates though, hand half outstretched, studying Martin’s face again. “May I?” he asks quietly.</p><p>He can’t remember the last time someone asked him that -- Tim, maybe, after noticing Martin flinch in surprise at unexpected touches one too many times. Then there was a long period of time where no one touched him at all, and then there was Peter. Peter with his casual and heavy touches. Only ever small things: a hand around his arm to guide Martin, a rough palm to the back of his neck, a dozen little things that crossed no clear boundaries but felt uncomfortable nonetheless.</p><p>“Martin?” Jon’s voice cuts through the echoing din in Martin’s head, and he hates hearing it sound so small and uncertain.</p><p>“Yeah. It’s okay Jon.” He guides Jon’s hands to his chest, sighs quietly when Jon’s cool hands flex against his skin. He half expects Jon to ask about his top surgery scars, but he just considers them for a moment before moving his hands. It’s a light, exploratory touch, and Jon smooths his hands down Martin’s shoulders before getting comfortable. Jon curls in a loose ball, head pillowed just above Martin’s heart and one arm slung over his waist. Martin rests one arm along Jon’s waist and cradles Jon’s head with his other hand.</p><p>Martin is surprised to realize he’s happy like this. He’s warm and safe with the man he loves, the man who loves him back. The man who’s seen him inside and out, the man who Martin’s seen just as thoroughly. It’s strange to feel like this after so long. Like going to move a limb he thought was gone only for it to still be there.</p><p>He presses his smile into Jon’s hair, and for the first time since he sold his soul to a lonely devil, Martin sleeps deeply and easily.</p><p>/=\=/=\=/=\=/=\=/=\</p><p>Martin wakes up slowly and luxuriously without an alarm clock or the knowledge he has somewhere to be. He’s not sure he ever really had the time to just have a lie in. He always had to wake up early to help his mum with her morning routine before rushing to school or work. He fully intends to enjoy this morning. One more hour, Martin tells himself as he settles on the bed with a satisfied snuggle.</p><p>His bed feels different though. Sure, his old mattress is a bit lumpy but-- “Oh,” Martin breaths, propping himself up on his elbows. He’d forgotten where he was and (more importantly) who he’s with. Martin stares down at Jon, who blinks back up at him slowly and sleepily. “Oh, I’m sorry Jon, I must’ve rolled over on you in my sleep. I’ll get up--”</p><p>Martin can feel the way he flushes down to his chest as he scrambles to get up without further crushing Jon. His short, jerky movements seem to rouse Jon to action, and he leans up with surprising speed. He gets his arms around Martin’s neck and flops down, dragging Martin with him. Jon even wraps a leg over Martin’s own, further holding him in place. Like this, Martin’s face is pressed into the curve of Jon’s neck, and he feels himself flush with something other than embarrassment when Jon trails a hand down Martin’s back, fingers barely brushing against the bare skin at the small of his back. “Uh, Jon?”</p><p>The man just grumbles, arms and legs tightening minutely around Martin. “It’s okay Martin. I don’t mind. This is… This is perfect, actually.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” Jon’s not a short man, but he looks frail. He looks like a bird with his quick, sharp movements and just as fragile. And Martin is, well, Martin. He’d always been a bit big, a bit too broad, and he’d only gotten bigger once he started on the testosterone. He doesn’t want to crush Jon.</p><p>Jon chuckles, a warm, sweet sound that ruffles the waves of Martin’s hair. He can feel it through Jon’s chest, and it’s nice. Pleasant. “I’m sure. This is good.”</p><p>Martin allows himself to relax by degrees, easing more and more of his weight onto Jon. Jon doesn’t complain. If anything, Martin can feel Jon melting beneath him, all lax muscles and slow, steady breaths. Martin lets himself join, sliding into that dreamy state between waking and sleeping. “I like it,” Jon says abruptly, muffling the quiet words into Martin’s bare shoulder. “The pressure, it-- it helps. When I was a child, during thunderstorms or when the world got too loud, I would find all the thickest blankets in the house and pile all of them on top of me. My grandmother, she never understood, but she didn’t complain so long as I folded all the blankets after. It kept me quiet and out of trouble for a few hours.”</p><p>The last sentence sends a pang through Martin’s chest, but the mental image makes him smile. He can imagine Jon as a young child, small and gangly, all sharp angles and dark eyes, head crowned with wild curls. That same little figure layering blanket after blanket over his head, knees tucked to his chest.</p><p>A thought strikes Martin. “Is that why you always wore those thick jackets in the Archives?”</p><p>“Yeah. I’ve always run a bit cold, and the pressure helps with the… the anxiety.” Jon seems embarrassed by that admission, but Martin just squeezes him gently. Jon, for all his intelligence, struggles with his emotions, and he appreciates the effort Jon is putting into communicating. “And having you here like this helps too. I… I know you’re still here. I know that you haven’t…”</p><p>“Oh, Jon,” Martin breathes, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to Jon’s cheek. It’s just a brush against scarred, stubbled skin, but the gentle touch makes Jon shudder beneath him and dig fingers into Martin’s shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere, love,” he promises. “I’m staying right here with you.”</p><p>“I know.” Jon laughs softly, disbelievingly. “I <i>Know</i>.” He keeps Martin close as if he’s something to be treasured, to be held close and loved. No one’s ever held Martin like that before, and now he’s the one shuddering.</p><p>Martin dozes off like that, curled on top of Jon with cool fingers pressing into his back. It’s not perfect. The Lonely still clings to Martin like a miasma, and the Beholding is still embedded in the very core of Jon. They still have their own trauma and neuroses to work through, and Martin knows that won’t be easy. But for now, things are good. They are somewhere safe, and they have each other. That’s enough. They’ll figure it out from here. Martin’s sure of that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is inspired by my friends at the <a href="https://discord.gg/HMxpTtT">podcast discord server</a>, as well as my own experiences as someone with autism.</p><p>RE: Jon's eyes. My headcanon for Jon is that pre-coma, Jon had brown eyes that would take on a gold color when he uses his Beholding abilities. Post-coma, Jon has gold eyes that look yellow when he uses his Beholding abilities.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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